Disclaimer: I am not, and will never be, Rick Riordan. Sadly, this means I don't own Percy Jackson.
Warnings: Self-edited, swearing, and mentions of PTSD.
"People assume that time is a strict progression of cause to effect, but actually from a non-linear, non-subjective viewpoint—it's more like a big ball of wibbly wobbly. . .time-y wimey. . .stuff."
-The Tenth Doctor, Doctor Who
"You drool in your sleep."
Look, he hadn't wanted to hallucinate his girlfriend.
Admittedly, it was nicer than dying, but if Percy was going to be reliving his greatest hits while bleeding out on Dirt Face, than first day of camp—swirlies and grief and all—was not his top choice. If pressed, he would probably pick the underwater kiss after the Battle of Manhattan.
Or when Annabeth had called him a hero and kissed him under Mount St. Helens. Though, considering how well that had ended, maybe not.
Just to be safe, Percy would go with the color Zeus turned whenever he had to deal with him. And the taste of his mom's blue cookies.
"Uh, you there, Jackson?" Annabeth—wonderfully alive, far too good for him, Annabeth—was now looking mildly confused.
"I'm hallucinating right now," Percy told her cheerfully. "So, as my girlfriend tells me, I'm not really there for you. Makes no sense, to be honest. I'm the one making you up, shouldn't I be the one there for you?"
The blonde raised an eyebrow, her expression changing to one of Di Immortales Why Do I Get the Crazies. Oblivious, Percy rambled on.
"But to be honest, it doesn't really matter, considering I'm probably paying a visit to the Emo One, Sr. right now. I can't complain, though, seeing as you haven't tried to kill me yet. But to be honest, I don't think you will. Or could, really."
"Oh?" Annabeth asked, eyes glittering with all the rage a young daughter of Athena could muster—which was quite a lot, by twelve-year-old standards.
To Percy, she just looked a bit like a cat who had just been sprayed with water; except dry, and Californian. With all the earnestness of a toddler, he told her so, before elaborating as her face became consequently darker.
"You're far too girlfriend-y—for your age, that is. I don't date girls six years younger than me. Also, your knife's over there."
Five minutes and one centaur extraction later, Percy was being chauffeured around Camp Half-Blood by Luke Castellan, who kept side-eyeing him as if he expected Percy to suffer a psychotic break any second. It was all quite silly, seeing as Luke had been to the one suffer a break by most standards, Percy remembered, his throat tightening with old grief.
"And that's Zeus and Hera's cabins, absolutely do not go in there under any circumstances unless the camp's on fire, or you want to be transformed into a small mammal - you alright there, Percy? You seem quiet." Hallucination-Luke gazed at him with genuine concern, and the young-old son of Poseidon had to resist the urge to puke at the conflict between memory and what was in front of him.
"Yeah—yeah, I'm fine," he managed. The son of Hermes merely gave him a look, and Percy hurriedly added, "Just a lot to take in, is all. And, well, my Mom."
That last one had hurt; when Hallucination-Chiron had taken him aside, quietly chastising him for pissing Not-Annabeth off despite just losing a parent, it had taken an embarrassingly long time for him to realize—he couldn't see his mother in this.
Also, people don't take well to being called hallucinations, particularly if there was a chance he somehow was not hallucinating. Which, quite frankly, was Tartarus-levels of terrifying, because doing the last six years of his life all over again? No thank you, Hera or Fates or whoever really hates my guts.
Not-Luke's face turned sympathetic, his eyes dark with memories, Percy now knew—his mother had gone mad after trying to become the oracle, leaving him to raise himself.
"I know it's a lot, learning about being a half-blood, especially being unclaimed, but I'm here for you, kid, if you ever need any help. We all are."
Percy opened his mouth, unsure of what would come out—Just what do you say to the guy that tried to end Western Civilization, then saved it? —when a familiar husky voice yelled from behind him, "Well! A newbie!"
The blond hallucination sighed, and the technically unclaimed (De-claimed? Re-unclaimed?) son of Poseidon felt lost. Without Annabeth beside him, he had no idea how to handle this scenario. What are the rules, Percy thought with a smidge of rising hysteria, of meeting either hallucinations of your friends, or just meeting their younger versions?
"Percy, meet Clarisse La Rue, daughter of Ares," Luke said resignedly, distracting Percy. After a long pause, he continued, "Clarisse, this is Percy Jackson, unclaimed."
Not-Clarisse grinned as her three cronies sniggered behind her. "Yeah, can see why. I wouldn't want to claim a shrimp like you, either."
Before he could think, Percy took up—for him—the familiar banter. "I doubt it'll be long. I mean, you were claimed."
The large girl's eye twitched, and Luke grimaced. "Prissy, I should warn you, we have a ritual for newbies who don't know where they should go."
"Clarisse—"
"Come on, I'll show you." She strode over, and quickly had him in a headlock, despite his struggles since, surprise surprise, for all of his memories, he was still a scrawny twelve-year-old up against a bulky child of Ares. As he was dragged towards the bathrooms, Luke was nowhere to be found, because of course he was. As Clarisse strode into the building, cackling cronies and unwilling Percy in tow, he could only think futilely, I won't go into those scummy johns again. I won't.
But, they barely got inside the building when Percy finally managed to twist and land a quick hit to the daughter of Ares's nose, allowing Percy to squirm out of her grip. The black-haired boy was dodging the iron grip of one of the Four Stooges, panic rising without Riptide at his side and his enemy being relative friendlies, when Percy felt a tug in the pit of his stomach. Wait, he was hallucinating, that shouldn't be able to—
Suddenly, he heard a giant explosion from inside, and a literal tidal wave shot out of the bathrooms, blasting Percy, Clarisse, Luke, and—oh gods, not again—Annabeth, who stood not fifteen feet away, with freezing, brown water. Percy, as always, was perfectly dry as he scrambled to his feet while Clarisse—now resembling an extremely pissed off warthog—rolled onto her hands and knees with a groan. Balefully, she glared at him through strands of stringy hair, now flattened against her head.
"You're dead, Prissy. Absolutely dead."
But Percy wasn't paying attention as he crossed his arms against his stomach, and struggled to take in shallow breaths.
It was real. All of it.
"Percy?" Luke approached him, caution written in his stance.
Percy shook his head, and struggled to think.
He had never, could never, use his powers like that, with the distinctive pull in his gut, if he were imagining something. And the water, the water had felt real, hadn't soaked him, bent to his command, and—
Κόλαση.
He wasn't hallucinating while dying, because he had already died. He was, for whatever reason, back in his twelve-year-old self, and reliving everything.
Gods, he was fucked.
And Percy Jackson, Slayer of the Minotaur, Defeater of Kronos and far too many monsters to count, ran away, leaving flabbergasted campers in his wake.
"Thanks for the help."
Luke shrugged, and sat down beside Percy as he stared blankly out at the water. Absentmindedly, he took note of the rough waves, and clouds forming on the horizon. The Master Bolt had already been stolen, he knew. Luke was already the lightning thief.
Gods, what happened? Why him?
Besides, the obvious, that is. Percy was well-aware of his Favored Punching Bag status already with the universe.
"I figured you needed to hold your own—Clarisse does it to every new camper. If it got out of hand, I would've stepped in. If I knew it would have. . .triggered something for you, I would have never let it get that far. I'm sorry, Percy."
At the apology, a startled Percy took a long look at Luke for the first time since his—time travel.
In contrast to the final days before he took on the Titan's spirit, Luke still looked healthy, for lack of a better word, and while the scar across his face still lent him a sense of gravity, the son of Hermes no longer appeared quite so malevolent—another word Annabeth had given him —as he had after Percy's first quest.
He could still be saved, Percy realized. The Greatly Annoying Prophecy never mentioned anyone specifically, and could be someone else. He just had to make sure someone like Nico wasn't forced to deal with what a dead hippie lady said almost a century ago. He could stop it; never mind the fact Percy still had no idea what was going on, and the apocalypse had been witness an hour ago. He'd figure something out.
"It's fine, Luke," Percy demurred. "Everything just. . .caught up with me, that's all. What with the Minotaur, my Mom, finding out my father is a freaking Greek god."
Unsurprisingly, the older teenager scowled at the last. "Believe me, Perce, you're not alone on that one; a lot of us know the feeling, never knowing your godly parent, believing them dead or scumbags that abandoned you, and even when I finally asked for help, I—"
Luke cut off, stiffening at his Frudian slip, or whatever Annabeth had called it.
"Sorry, Percy," he finally said stiffly. "You don't need to know my problems on top of yours."
Percy shrugged.
"I don't mind, Luke—takes my mind off mine, to be honest. I don't mind listening," Percy said quickly. He was about to leave it at that, when an idea struck him. Luke may have talked to Kronos, but Percy could still try and sway him. "I'm curious, though—are there any, I don't know, immortal rules or something keeping gods from acknowledging that we exist? I mean, I can't imagine not caring about any of my kids, even after watching so many live and die for centuries. Gotta keep an eye on Percy Junior, if you know what I mean."
The son of Hermes let out an amused huff at this, before he became thoughtful. Finally, he gave an answer that surprised even Percy, his tone carefully neutral.
"There. . .are the Ancient Laws," Luke said grudgingly. "No one who's not an immortal knows all of the specifics, but. . .we know that th-they do govern their behavior."
"How so?" Percy asked quietly, his eyes locked on him. In front of the two, the waves surged, and a faint rumble could be heard off in the distance.
"The Ancient Laws dictate that no immortal with ichor in their veins can directly interfere in mortal or demigod affairs unless directly challenged or in their domain," Luke recited. "No god is allowed to enter another's domain without explicit invitation, or allowed to steal another's symbol of power unless a mortal champion is sent—"
There was a brief pause; Percy internally winced, and Luke set his jaw as he looked at him, his eyes searching.
"And none of the elder gods are allowed to sire any children after World War Two," Luke concluded. "There are a ton of Laws for them to follow, but those are the biggies."
"So, the gods can't acknowledge their children?"
"—No, not unless. . .they're claiming them, or they've. . .done something pretty important." The son of Hermes was a paradox; his tone was almost wondering as he finished talking, but his blue eyes burnt with rage and his knuckles were white as he gripped a handful of grass.
"How important?" Percy was genuinely curious on this one; in his. . .previous life, this one had never come up. Plus, it had been pretty clear that he, Thalia, and Nico had been special cases, especially with the wars.
"Usually, if they're actually acknowledging you outside of claiming, you've—just earned immortality," Luke's answer was halting, and it was clear he wasn't focusing on the conversation at hand. "Or," he added ruefully. "You've just committed a screw-up worthy of the ancient heroes."
At this, neither boy spoke for a time; Percy mulled over what he had learned, carefully not thinking of anything before he had woken up at the Big House for the second time. Periodically, he chanced a quick glance over at Luke, whose brow remained furrowed as he stared off into the distance. Meanwhile, he contemplated his situation, and began to consider his next move. Below the two demigods, the sea began to calm for the first time as Percy was lost in his own thought, jumping from one idea to another.
"Anyway, if you ever need anything, just ask me or the Stolls; we'll be able to hook you up as long as you don't ask too many questions." Luke broke the silence, and clambered to his feet, silently making it clear the conversation was over. Percy was for the first time thankful he already knew about the camp black market; he had no desire to be pranked again while trying to discreetly get toiletries because he didn't know the ropes.
"Right, thank you, I'll probably take you up on that," Percy stood up as he spoke, suddenly desperate to be somewhere. Preferably with the sea closer. And without younger versions of people who had tried to kill him or that he had just watched die. At the last second, though, he remembered his previous ideas, and called to the counselor.
"Though, Luke, could you or the Stolls get me a notebook?"
"Um, sure. Just, mind if I ask why?" Without thinking, the black-haired boy out of time went for the obvious answer with a secretive grin.
"I could tell you, but I'd have to kill you." Luke let out a surprised laugh and Percy took the chance to take one last study of someone Annabeth had hero-worshipped for years. With a genuine smile smoothing away the harsh lines carved by time, and the sun catching the gold in his hair, Percy could see how half the camp had mooned after him—including Silena and Annabeth at one point, he knew.
Shut up, brain. SO do not need those images.
"Fine, fine, like you could take me in fight anyway. Just know you can go to me or Chiron if there's something you need to talk about, right?"
Percy nodded silently, and didn't relax until Luke was out of earshot, letting out a long, heaving sigh.
This was not going to be fun. Seriously, there had to be a limit to the amount of weird one person's life could have.
As he finally stood up to go and refresh his memory of the camp layout—pre-Hera-fuckery memories were a little fuzzy—he could have sworn he saw a flash of gold out of the corner of his eye as the waves crashed on the rocks below.
Eight hours and an extremely awkward conversation with Annabeth later, ("Look, Wise Girl—" "Did you just call me Wise Girl?") Percy was hiding in a cove on the rocky beach, one black, slightly worn notebook ("I promise, Percy, completely paid for—"), pen, and borrowed flashlight in hands.
After glancing up at the glittering night sky, sans one constellation—permanently, if he had anything to say about it—Percy stuck his pencil behind his ear, and viewed his Official Time Traveller's Guide To Preventing the Mythic Apocalypse by Percy Jackson—A.K.A., list of godly screw-ups to correct this time around, because this was his life now.
In Greek, of course. Percy had no desire to deal with dyslexia while trying to save the world.
-Get Bianca and Nico out of the Lotus ASAP—talk to Uncle.
-Suggest to Chiron Golden Fleece could fix Thalia.
-Calypso—use powers? build raft? Something.
-Keep an eye on Silena + Beckendorf.
-Deal with Aunty M.
-Find the Labyrinth, talk to D with Rachel.
-Find Bessie, get her somewhere safe.
-Keep Luke from hosting Kronos at all costs.
-Find Circe, Hylla + Reyna, direct towards Amazons and Camp J—reach out to Romans later.
-Find the rest of the Seven—tell Thalia about Jason, when given chance—Hazel?
-Fill in gaps of myths knowledge, work on Latin—ask Annabeth?
-Find out who thought me saving the world after going back in time was a good idea, and kick their asses into next century.
"What could go wrong?" he breathed.
"Everything, little brother. One would think you know that by now." Percy whipped around, reaching for a pen that wasn't there, only for his jaw to drop in shock at the person standing in the mouth of the cove.
"You?"